


Practice Makes Perfect

by autumnlouise



Series: Baby, It's Cold Outside [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, Teen!lock AU, Teenlock, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 11:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13122705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnlouise/pseuds/autumnlouise
Summary: When the Sadie Hawkins winter ball comes around, Molly requests the help of her best friend, Sherlock, to practice asking someone special to the dance. (Teen!lock AU)





	Practice Makes Perfect

“Try it again,” Sherlock said, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair. “Again, but better.”

Directly across from him, Molly Hooper took a deep breath, squeezed her hands into fists, and closed her eyes. “Will… will you go to the Winter Ball with me?”

It was a valiant effort, and she had certainly made progress with her stuttering in the past half hour. But Sherlock’s lips still twitched upwards into the faintest hint of a smile again. “Molly,” he chuckled, “You have to say it with your eyes open.”

The aforementioned girl let out an exasperated groan and flopped back onto the bed behind her.

They were holed up in Molly’s bedroom, he at her desk coaching while Molly practiced what she wanted to say over and over again. It was mid-December, and the Christmas holidays were nearing– as well as the Winter Ball, a girl’s choice dance hosted by their school every year. Neither he nor Molly had ever been before, and he had assumed that this year, their final year, would be the same. But Molly had surprised him a few days earlier when she had requested his help. She was going to ask someone to the dance, she’d told him, and she wanted help overcoming her social anxiety and stutter to do so. Sherlock hated the dance and all its frivolousness– he hated any sort of social function, really– but Molly was his very best friend, and he would do anything for her. It had been that way since they’d met in primary school; something about her shyness had wrapped him around her finger and made him her knight in shining armor.

So of course, he had accepted. And now here they were, drilling the same sentence over and over again in the hopes that Molly would gain some confidence.

“I’m never going to get this right!” she groaned, covering her face with her hands. A show of emotion like this from anyone else would have irritated Sherlock Holmes. But with Molly, he was well used to it; her sensitivity was just part who she was. Her intelligence, he found, seemed to balance out the fact that she was quite irrational in her feelings from time to time. “Oh, Sherlock, I’m going to make a complete fool of myself in front of–” and she broke off just short of saying a name, her face reddening.

Sherlock’s head shot up in excitement, only to be disappointed a moment later. Molly had been so secretive about who she was asking. No matter how many times he asked, she refused to tell him. “Mess up in front of _whom?_ ” he pressed, trying to get it out of her. “Who are you going with?”

Molly sighed. “I’m surprised you don’t know yet.” she said quietly. “But I’m not telling you.”

Sherlock pouted dramatically.  Molly leaned back  onto her elbows and rolled her eyes. “Just deduce it out of me, if you’re so desperate to know.”

His eyes widened. He and Molly had an agreement that he would _never_ , under any circumstances, purposely deduce her. It had been that way since year three, when one of his deductions had accidentally made her cry. But here she was, arms open, asking him to read her like a book. It would be all too easy…

But it still felt like an invasion of her privacy, even with her permission. He would guess, he decided, but not deduce. He would be like John; seeing, but not observing.

“Ugh, _please_ don’t tell me it’s Anderson.” he drawled. “He’s an idiot and a bloody git.”

Molly gasped, somehow shocked by the insult even though she’d known him for at least a decade. “Sherlock!”

Okay. Not a no, but not a yes, either. Keep guessing. “Tom?” he tried, cringing as he said the name. Oh, that boy was so horribly _dull_ – but he seemed to have a thing for Molly, as well as an unfortunate nickname resulting from a rather stupid comment made during a dissection lab in Biology. “Meat Dagger?”

Molly laughed once, almost nervously, but she didn’t say anything.

“Gavin?”

“Who?” her brows knit together in confusion. She knew exactly who he was talking about, Sherlock thought with a sigh. The popular boy whose father worked for Scotland Yard. He was well on his way to going there, too, and the whole school knew it; he must have gotten his bloody name wrong again. But still, it was obvious who he meant.

“Graham? Geoffrey?”

Molly was still looking at him like he had six heads.

He finally relented and gave up on trying to remember Giles’s first name. “ _Lestrade._ ”

And that got a giggle out of Molly, he thought with some satisfaction. “Sherlock, it’s _Greg._ ” she chastised through her laughter. “You’ve known him since year nine and you still can’t remember his name?”

Oh, he could remember it if he tried. But it was a piece of information he often deleted from his Mind Palace, especially following an incident in year ten when he’d flirted with Molly so obviously in front of the whole class…

He told himself he held the grudge because Gordon had embarrassed her that day. Molly’s face had been bright red, and Sherlock had to swoop in to tell Lestrade to piss off, that she didn’t appreciate the pressure and the advances. Molly had privately punched him in the shoulder afterwards… but thanked him, too. That had to mean something. Right?

 _No._ He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. It didn’t need to mean something, not when Molly was asking a boy to the dance and needed his help with it. It didn’t matter. Why should it?

“Oh, nevermind that, Sherlock.” Molly said, pushing the matter of who she would be asking aside. “I’m just never going to get this right. You don’t have to keep helping me, I know I’m just going to mess it up royally.”

“Nonsense, Molly. You’ve improved wonderfully already. You can say it without crying now, at least.”

A pillow came hurtling at his head. But Molly did not have the best aim, so it merely breezed over his shoulder and landed with a soft _thud_ on the floor beside his foot. “You’re not funny.” she said, sitting up. “Don’t make jokes, Sherlock.”

“You liked the one about the dead chemist,” he pointed out.

She huffed a little, and her lower lip stuck out in quite an adorable pout. “Yes, well, you got that one off of the internet. It doesn’t count.”

“I did not!” he insisted. “I _do_ take lots of things from the internet– from SparkNotes especially– but I am not so desperate that I consult _Google_ for my jokes.” he spat out the name of the search engine like his mother’s split pea soup. Meanwhile, Molly’s expression had turned from irritated to worried.

“SparkNotes?” she demanded, crossing her arms and glaring at him.  “Have you studied for the exam on _Anna Karenina_ tomorrow? Have you even _read_ it?”

“No.” Sherlock said with a shrug, spinning the chair in lazy, swooping arcs. “And I’m not going to.”

Molly squeaked frustratedly. “Sherlock! You have a 65% in English!”

“That’s because it’s _boring!_ ” He groaned, throwing his hands in the air. He _despised_ school, especially the private, prestigious one they were oh-so-lucky enough to attend, and saw no point in taking any of these classes. They were dreadfully dull– except for chemistry and biology– and full of information he immediately deleted from his mind palace. “Why waste my time on something I’ll never even use later? Why should I care about Russian women and their torrid affairs?”

“Mycroft will be upset with you. Please, go and study.” She begged.

“No, I’m helping you.” He said firmly. “This is certainly more important. Mycroft can piss off.”

She opened her mouth, took a breath… and then closed it defeatedly. Sherlock smirked; not only was he wrapped around her finger, but sometimes it went the other way round, too. She knew he was stubborn and preferred to pick and choose her battles instead of fighting him on everything, like his mother and Mycroft. “Stop procrastinating by guilting me, Molly. Just try it again.”

Molly looked as though she’d had enough– of practicing, of Sherlock himself. Sherlock wondered if he was about to get pelted with another pillow, but she seemed to pull herself together. “Okay. Okay, I can do this,” she whispered, trying to encourage herself. She closed her eyes again and took a breath. “Hey there. Um, I know this is kind of sudden, but I was wondering if you–”

“No.” Sherlock barked. Molly fell silent at the sound of his voice. “Look at me, Molly. You want to seem confident? Then look me _directly_ in the eyes when you speak.”

“Argh!” Molly let out another frustrated shout. Her face fell, eyes quickly turning glassy– her anxiety was peaking. She had been emotionally elevated before, yes, with that constant worry running in the background. But this latest failure was what had caused the real panic to start seeping to the surface. Sherlock had become accustomed to the signs over the years. “Sherlock, you know eye contact makes me… anxious.”

“Yes, well, a lot of things make you anxious,” Sherlock murmured, leaning forward and gently wrapping his hand around Molly’s wrist. Just as he’d suspected… pulse elevated. He could feel the beat of her heart thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings against her soft skin. The anxiety was about to hit, and it was going to be up to him to calm her down. “And you often do them anyways.”

She tore her hand away from him and wrapped her arms around herself. “Yeah, well, this is… different.”

“Why?” He said it with a tone of genuine curiosity. Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes were both intelligent– though the latter moreso– and had an affinity for science and morbid, mysterious things. However, when it came to emotions, they were polar opposites. Molly was naturally high strung and perpetually needed a Xanax, while Sherlock’s heart rate never rose above 100 beats per minute.

“It just _is._ ” she shouted, tears threatening to spill over. “It’s different this time, and I just can’t do it, I can’t!” Her breaths quickened, turning short and shallow; Sherlock could see her hands shaking. His time to act had come. Rising from his chair, he went to sit beside her on the bed and took her hand. He didn’t often initiate physical contact, but Sherlock found it was easier to monitor her heart rate and calm her down when he held her hand. For her, it was a source of comfort, it seemed.

“I hear you.” Sherlock said quietly. “Molly, look at me.”

“Stop.” Molly squeaked, squeezing her eyes shut as the tears came.

“Open your eyes and look at me.” He murmured. “Your mind is forcing you to think and act irrationally. I am going to talk you through this.”

She sniffled, her whole body starting to tremble against Sherlock’s. Her eyes stayed firmly shut as tears dripped down her cheeks. Something in Sherlock’s chest twisted in agony. “Easy for you to say.”

He raised a hand to brush the tears away. “Molly, look at me.”

His touch startled her, eyes flying open in alarm. But when he asked her to look… she did.

“Why are you anxious?”

“Because I’m a failure.” Molly breathed, and her voice was thick with emotion. She was talking too fast, too quietly; Sherlock had to calm her down before she fell completely into her own mind. “Because I can’t get this right and I’m just going to screw it up like I do with everything else.”

“Wrong.” He insisted. In a desperate move to calm her, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him, the way he’d seen Mycroft do with his mother when she was upset. She pressed into him, fitting into his side as though it was exactly where she was meant to be.

 _Stop._ He shouldn’t be thinking like this. He needed to focus on calming Molly, his best friend and nothing else. “None of those things are true, Molly. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Now, take a deep breath and _think_ ; why are you anxious?”

She knew the answer. She knew what he was going to say next. They had done this before over the years- in closets at school when panic hit her unexpectedly in the middle of class. During late night study sessions on the phone, when she was certain she was going to fail a test the next day. Molly took a deep, shuddering gasp. “Because I don’t have enough serotonin.”

“Yes, exactly. It’s just a chemical imbalance in your brain. Don’t give it power over you,” he soothed, trying to be encouraging. The men in his family were loth to be emotional, Mycroft especially. He had a tendency to be cold and distant, but Molly pulled him out of his shell– made him gentler and warmer. He would do anything for her. “Remember, who’s the chemist here?”

“You?” she croaked, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile.

“Yes, I am a chemist, but I was referring to _you._ You are in control of how you react.” he told her, squeezing her hand. She had a brilliant mind that sometimes disobeyed her- but she was strong enough, smart enough, to reign it back under her control. She always had been, no matter what she believed. “You, Molly Hooper, are bloody brilliant, and I refuse to let you be held back thanks to a few wonky chemicals.”

Molly leaned her head against his chest.“It’s so hard,” she choked. “Sherlock. I can’t just pull myself out of this at the drop of a hat.”

And Sherlock Holmes froze. Here she was, in his arms, hysterical, and suddenly he had no idea what to do. He didn’t want to move, even breathe, not when any little movement would send her jumping away from him. But the priority was _not_ how she was tucked against him, he reminded himself. Calm her down. Help her practice. Sentiment would only get in the way, because what Molly needed right now was pure, cold logic. “I know. But you’re doing wonderfully. Just listen to my voice and breathe.”

Molly let out the tiniest sigh. Her whole body was still shaking; without thinking, he pulled her closer to him, almost on top of his lap, and held her tightly. _Breathe, Molly,_ he willed her. She was stronger than she believed. If only she saw herself the way he did.

He ached to say all of that out loud. But instead, he opened his mouth and asked, “Why are you worried?”

“Because I don’t want to muck this up.”

He didn’t know what to do other than squeeze her hand again. “And is worrying productive?”

“No.”

His own heart accelerated when she grabbed his hand back, clinging to him like a life preserver.   _Logic_ , he chastised himself.“What can you do to fix your problem instead, then?”

“Practice.”

“Exactly. But before you practice, you need to...”

“Calm down.”

Good. He was getting somewhere. The tiniest bit of relief warmed his chest– or maybe that was just Molly’s warm little form tucked against him. “Yes. Now, remember, you are in control.” he offered her his wrist. “Breathe slowly and deeply until your pulse matches mine.”

She wrapped her hand around his wrist and pressed her ear against his chest, listening and breathing. She was fighting hard inside her head; Sherlock could see it in the pained expression on her face. In the labored breaths she took as she battled to calm her roaring heart. But slowly, surely, she began to come back down from that panic-induced high; her body stopped shaking, returning to normal.

“There.” he whispered, listening to the sound of her breathing and feeling the steady beat of her pulse in her wrist. “Not so hard, hm?”

“You have no idea.” she sighed.

“No, I don’t.” he said, “And I am thankful for that. However, despite not knowing how you feel in the slightest, I am here to support you regardless. I don’t want to see you hurting.”

Molly was still now. She was no longer shaking and crying, trapped in the throes of anxiety, but she was still curled in his lap. Both of them realized the intimacy of the situation at the same time– Sherlock felt her little body go awkwardly rigid against him. Biting her lip, she untangled herself from his arms and slowly pushed herself away. Sherlock, equally embarrassed to have allowed himself to get so close, scooted towards the other end of her mattress. He cleared his throat. “Shall we keep practicing?”

Molly took another deep breath, an awkward blush painted on her cheeks. She looked hesitant at the thought of being so close to him again; Sherlock couldn’t help the wave of disappointment that crashed over him. But she was never his to long for. She was always going to ask someone else at the end of the day. Not that he cared. Not that even _liked_ the dance.

“No. I… I think I’ve done as much as I can. At least I’m stuttering less. I should probably go and ask before I panic again.”

Forcing a smile, he tried to make a joke and remedy the situation. “Shall I come? Just in case?”

“No!” her face turned red. “Not that I don’t… I just meant…”

A real smile, this one melancholy, played on Sherlock’s lips. “It’s alright. I know your potential lovers mostly believe I am intimidating, and often that I am your boyfriend.”

Molly stood and sighed. “Yeah, well… I should probably be going. You know, before he goes…”

“I’ll be here.” Sherlock said, lounging on her bed. Part of him was relieved she was going, meaning he wouldn’t have to face everything they’d both just felt. But the other half of him– the part Mycroft would chastise him for– wanted her to stay. Badly.  With an under-his-breath snarl, he told Mind Palace Mycroft to screw off. “You’ll do wonderfully, Molly. And if he says no, he’s truly an imbecile. Especially so if it’s Anderson. One would be very lucky to have you as their date.”

Her only response was a small smile. Sherlock’s gaze instinctively moved towards her eyes, her pupils, but he snapped them away. He was unwilling to deduce her when she was in a state like this. And in the split second where he was looking away, Molly slipped out the door. Her footsteps, quick and light on the stairs, reminded him of a cat’s.

At the bottom of the stairs, her footsteps paused. Froze. Sherlock guessed that she stood on the landing for at least a full minute, debating something or other, before she turned and sprinted back up the stairs again.

Her bedroom door burst open a second later. Sherlock chuckled at the sight of her, pink-faced and breathless. “Forget something?”

“It’s my house.” she panted. “You get out, too.”

Sherlock smirked but rose from her bed all the same, following her out the door and into the London street just outside. Molly closed the front door behind her, depositing her key in her pocket. They shared an awkward glance, both of them standing on the sidewalk but neither of them wanting to be the first to leave.

They spoke at the same time.

“You should be going.”

“I should leave.”

Sherlock hoped the noise of pedestrians and cars whooshing past covered the tinge of regret in his voice. “Meat Dagger or Gordon or Anderson awaits.” he offered, gesturing vaguely towards the center of London. Molly nodded once, but looked unsure.

“Yes, they do.” she said slowly. But she stayed rooted to the spot– God, when was she going to _leave?_ Sherlock couldn’t be next to her for another moment, it was too much to see her about to leave him for the arms of another… It wasn’t logical, he knew, but he couldn’t stop himself from feeling it. His emotions were something that happened only in the presence of Molly. The rest of the world did not warrant anything other than bland irritation.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” he said quickly, stepping away from her and moving to call a cab. “Off you pop!”

“Sherlock, wait!” The sound of her voice made his stomach jump. Much to his surprise, Molly reached out to grab his wrist. “I…” her voice shook. “Can I ask you something?”

Puzzled, he turned around. Why was she being so dodgy all of a sudden? And why wasn’t she leaving to go and ask her dreadful, boring, dull Prince Charming to the dance? “Yes, of course, Molly.” _Always._

She looked as though she might throw up. “Well… I know this is kind of sudden, but I was wondering…” she stammered, trailing off. She took a huge breath and tried to pull herself together before she started again. “I was wondering…”

 _What?_ Why was she asking him the same thing they’d been practicing all afternoon? Was she just trying to get in another round to make sure she’d be perfect for _him?_ A hot flash of resentment burned through his veins. “Are we practicing again?” he snapped, his voice scathing.

Molly flinched. He immediately despised himself. Her eyes looked glassy, but she still pressed on...“Sherlock, I was wondering if _you_ would go with me to the Winter Ball…?”

Oh.

_Oh._

Sherlock’s mind was running at a thousand miles a minute. Here she was, trying to do something kind, and he had been the one to muck it up! Mind Palace Mycroft hurled a string of insults at him. In the background, Molly was rambling. “I know you hate dances, and I know you probably see me as a sister and not a girlfriend or even a friend, please feel free to say no, and I know you hate making big shows out of things like this… but I just wanted to know if you would go… if you would have me…?”

Sherlock was staring. And he couldn’t get his mouth to form coherent words, his mind to think anything other than _is this real? Does she feel the same?_ Logic be damned, he let sentiment take over and all he wanted to do was kiss her. A dozen declarations of love ran through his mind.

Because he couldn’t deny it anymore. His heart belonged to Molly Hooper.

“Sherlock, please,” Molly begged, clearly anxious. Sherlock snapped to his senses; had something he’d said made her even more upset? How _stupid_ could he get?

“Did you not hear what I said?”

“No…?”

“Damn. I always think I’m speaking out loud.” Why did this _always_ happen when it mattered most? He took a breath and put his hands on Molly’s shoulders. “What I _meant_ to say was this: Molly Hooper. For years I have told you that love is something I did not see myself as being capable of. But I must apologize… because I have lied to you. You are not only my best friend, but also the girl that I– as I have suspected for some time now– love very deeply.  And even though the Winter Ball is the most idiotic, flowery, flamboyant…. Well, you know my opinion on that matter. But despite all that, I will absolutely go to the dance with you.”

Sherlock had thought he’d been shocked. But Molly’s jaw dropped open. She was l literally speechless. “Ummmmm. Wow. _Wow_ .” she kept saying _wow_ over and over again, and Sherlock thought the same as he looked at her. She was so beautiful. She absolutely captivated him. It was so freeing to finally be able to admit that. “Love. That went really well. A lot better than I was expecting. _Love._ ” she paused.

“You’re surprised?” he asked gently. How could she not have seen what he felt for her? How could they both have been so blind?

“Um. Yes.” She admitted, with an awkward little giggle. “How long have you…?”

He didn’t hesitate. “The first day of year ten. You?”

Molly’s breath caught in her throat when she heard him say that. It was almost like she hadn’t believed it was real until that moment– until he’d given her concrete proof that he truly did love her. Sherlock hated himself for not telling her sooner. For putting her through so much anxiety. When she finally looked back up at him, she said, “I don’t know exactly. Longer, I think. Maybe since forever, in a way.”

 _Forever._ Oh, God, he didn’t deserve her in the least.

“What do we do now?” he asked, because he didn’t want to mess things up even more. He wanted to kiss her very badly, but he was not certain that it was appropriate.

Thankfully, Molly made the decision for him. “I’m not entirely certain.” she said, inching closer to him, “But in the movies, it always goes something like this.”

And stood on her tiptoes, grabbed Sherlock’s face, and kissed him full on the lips.  Passionately.

It was the most amazing thing he’d ever felt. Molly was pressed against him, her hands warm against his face. One hand moved to her waist, the other to her hair, pinning her beside him. They were wrapped around each other, but he wanted to be closer still. Judging by the way Molly stepped onto his feet to reach him a little easier, she felt the same.

When they finally pulled back, Sherlock stumbled back. “I–” raising a hand to his lips, he struggled to understand what, exactly, had just happened. Oxytocin and dopamine were thrumming through his mind, his veins, providing that euphoric rush of neurotransmitters. His heart was pounding, 120 beats per minute. 125. 130. He was confused. He’d never felt this before. But he very badly wanted to do it again.

He loved Molly, and he loved kissing her, and sentiment had never felt so _good._

“I know it wasn’t very good,” Molly said, breathless and a little flushed. “So I was wondering if you would maybe help me with some practice…?”

How long had he wished for her to ask that? “I would be absolutely delighted to, Molly Hooper.” Sherlock said, the slightest smile playing on his face. And before she could move, Sherlock scooped her into his arms like a waiting bride. He pressed his lips against hers again, trying out the fit of them together– perfect– and he did not pull away as they crossed over the threshold of Molly’s house and slammed the door shut behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! That was a long one. I've had that idea bouncing around in my head for a few weeks and I've finally had the time to finish it. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out! I've had a headcanon for a long time that Molly was a worrier/socially anxious as a teen, and I also feel like if Sherlock had a best friend like Molly in childhood, he wouldn't have been so emotionally closed off. I had a lot of fun playing with their characters here. I hope I did them justice. :)  
> Again, Merry Christmas Eve to all of you lovely readers! Christmas Eve is a hard day for me, but I'm getting through, mostly with the help of writing and Sherlock and Molly's friendly faces. :) I hope you're having a wonderful day with family and friends-- even if those friends are fictional.


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